Sand & Sky
by evaschon1793
Summary: A short one-shot detailing what happened to Dietrich after the Rat Patrol left him in Hourglass Raid.


Sun pounding on the back of his head.

A side that ached every time he shifted.

Wind, gusting across the desert, left over from the blinding sandstorm that had gotten him into this predicament in the first place, sent sand into his eyes, nose, and mouth. Dietrich coughed and closed his eyes. Pain coursed through his chest and side, making his entire body rigid with pain for a moment until the worst of it subsided.

The doctor had lied about many things, most likely ever since Dietrich's commander had started working with him to gather information about Allied defences and inside information, but he hadn't lied about Dietrich's broken ribs. He could feel the pain radiating out from his body. Even the slightest movement brought pain, so he lay still as possible.

Thirst stalked him. Troy had left a canteen beside him just before he and the other members of the Rat Patrol had gone off after the doctor, but Dietrich didn't want to move the few inches for his hand to reach it. Pain and thirst battled each other, and for the moment, pain won. He swallowed slowly.

His men would be here soon. Troy wouldn't have left him without some sign that they were coming, he was sure of that. If his side hadn't ached so much, dogging him continually with pain, he might have smiled. They understood each other, him and that sergeant. Images flitted through his head like a moving picture – scenes of various truces and standoffs – but they melted away just as quickly. The effort it took to breath, and the ache that stabbed through him every time he did made it hard to hold on to anything as fleeting as memories.

At first, he let the thoughts leave, let his eyes flutter shut, let his body relax.

But then he forced himself back into the world of consciousness.

Fear pushed its way into his mind, a sensation every bit as potent and clinging as the pain that constantly throbbed through his body. He'd gone almost gone unconscious again. That couldn't be allowed to happen. He could miss his men or never wake up at all, so he forced his mind to stay awake. Alert.

Thirst was an excellent helper.

He didn't want to think of Troy, or any members of the Rat Patrol for that matter. They might have had a few truces over the past year, and they might have respect for each other, but that didn't change the fact that they were enemies. That the Rat Patrol was responsible for dozens of his men's deaths. He focused on other memories, perhaps not as clear, but always hovering at the forefront of his mind.

Memories of home, some good, some bad.

Horrible years of starvation and chaos in post-war Germany. His mother attending that he attend the very best school in Munich – no matter the cost – so that he would be able to fight for a proper place in the world. The day his father brought home a puppy. The day that puppy, grown to a large dog, had been killed by a neighbour for stealing some food. Dietrich had cried that day, even if he was fifteen. He'd been filled with rage like he'd never felt before against the neighbour. His father was the one who'd kept him calm, kept him from making a scene that everyone would regret.

That one, terrible day nearly six years ago when his mother had died. An automobile had crashed into her while she was on her way to buy groceries – the stores slowly being replenished, although everything was still expensive. It was Dietrich, then about twenty, who'd encouraged his father and kept the man from staying in the deep depression that took hold of him almost instantly.

And, finally, the tears in his father's eyes when Dietrich had asked for permission to join the Wermacht. Tears of pride, certainly, but also of pain. Fear. His father was a Great War veteran. He knew the dangers, the pain, the heartache that always came with war, but he hadn't stood in his son's way. Still allowed him to go, with his blessing no less.

Now, Dietrich wasn't sure whether to be angry or grateful.

No. This wouldn't do. He was being lulled to a place of thick unconsciousness by the memories. Eyes closing once again.

_Where are my men?_

He finally gave into his thirst and, moving his arm as little as possible, he pulled the canteen from the sand that had cocooned around it. Everything hurt, no matter what he did, so he might as well take care of his thirst while he was still coherent and able to think clearly. If his men didn't arrive soon, he wasn't sure he'd be able to hold onto his senses for much longer.

Tepid water ran down his throat. He was thirsty enough to drink the whole thing, but was careful to leave about half in case he was stuck there for much longer. A nod to the optimistic idea that he'd be able to hang on for that long.

Thirst gone, memories unwelcome, and the monotony of the desert all worked against him.

Eyes closed, he waited for his men.

:::::

"Hauptmann Dietrich! Hauptmann Dietrich!"

The shouts had to fight through a thick, cloudy fog before they reached Dietrich's ears. He opened his eyes a crack, squinting in the sun that had moved over his head, directly into his eyes. Sand blanketed him thinly. How long had it been since he'd fallen asleep?

A face appeared in his line of vision, blocking out the sun. He opened his eyes more fully and blinked several times, trying to clear the sand and sleep from his eyes. Had his side not redoubled in pain, he'd have rubbed his eyes with his hands, but that was out of the question now.

"I'm sorry, Hauptmann Dietrich," the face said. "It was difficult to figure out your exact location."

He recognized the face now. Manfred, his aide.

Dietrich waved his hand weakly to show it didn't really matter. And it didn't. At least his men were here now. "You need to get a medic," he said. "Don't move me until you have one." He coughed as sand tickled his throat and barely held in a cry of pain. "When the truck overturned..."

He was sure Manfred understood. It hurt too much to speak.

Questions would be asked back at headquarters, he would have to fill out yet another report of his failures – losing the doctor as a contact was bad enough, but the information he had been carrying was a whole new matter – but at the moment, none of that mattered.

He was with his men. He was safe. He would get better.

2 _**Page**_


End file.
